


Snowfall

by WolfVenom



Series: R6S Drabbles [14]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Broken Bones, Character Death, Crying, Drabble, Explosions, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hypothermia, M/M, Medical Procedures, Request Meme, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: Doc/Rook medical violence requested by anonymous.





	Snowfall

There’s an explosion. 

 

Doc knows its repercussions will be great-- can feel the dread tangle itself through his very marrow and knows by sound alone that it wasn’t a flash or a smoke, both of which his squadron was instructed only to bring. Which means that the grenade that went off was from a terrorist, and that neither of his three teammates responded to his callouts. 

 

Luckily for him, the sound draws his attention instantly towards the west, nearest the tip of an iceberg that creeps its way up the hull of the yacht, where he can see the black tendrils of the aftermath sweep up the air and, by some sick twist of fate, a body too large to be Twitch and too thin to be Montagne tumble from the lip of the snowy mountain. 

 

It’s as if the entire world freezes in a Polaroid snapshot. Rook hitting the ice below with an intimidating  _ crack _ and a small avalanche following him thereafter, and the heady pumps of adrenaline throughout his body kick his system into overdrive, all thought process going towards the body sticking out like a sore thumb against the white and slowly bleeding snow. Doc sprints as fast as he can, ignoring the whiplash of snowflakes against his eyelids, before skidding to a halt on his hands and knees nearby Rook, helpless to stop the slow break of the ground beneath him as freezing water bubbles up to try and claim his teammate. 

 

Words are not valuable at this point, so Doc works silently on not disturbing the unstable crutch beneath him as he clutches onto Rook’s tactical vest,  hands already bitten with frost and shaking under the soaking fabric. Should any more time be wasted, hypothermia would surely kick in before he had a chance to fix the damage which already churned the ground into a cherry snow cone. 

 

Sweat freezes against his brow as he huffs under his mask and tries his damnedest to drag Rook as far from the hole as possible, painting a fine line in the white with blood and he refuses to stop until his footing is sure and the yacht’s back entrance stands open for them. 

 

Inside, the chilly wind doesn’t reach skin and slight warmth emanates from the boilers as they continue to sputter with what little life they have left, and Doc hurries Rook over his shoulder and to the warmest corner in the dark basement, protecting his head against the wall as he drops him to the floor. 

 

He doesn’t care to check for terrorists. Twitch and Montagne have surely gathered enough in their sector to bring him enough seclusion for the duration, and without stopping for a breath he pulls out the medical kit strapped to his back. It takes him five minutes of precious time to yank off his armour and helmet, cutting away offending gear with a large pair of scissors to both expose his injuries and rid him of the soggy cold which could claim his life. Doc’s breathing comes rapid and worried, erratic in his throat and he pulls his mask down over his mouth to attempt some semblance of fresh air. This is no time to seize up. 

 

Years of training guide his hand, tearing Rook’s jumpsuit and undershirt to reveal shrapnel wounds to his torso and belly, trying his best to ignore the grotesque bend in his left limbs which can surely wait until his bleeding is handled. Rook is thankfully unconscious, though both boon and bane as the longer he isn’t awake, the more chances he has to not wake up. Doc hurries. 

 

There’s gauze, scissors, tweezers, stitches, needles and various medicines in his emergency pack, all of which he collects and sets to work ridding Rook of the metal in his gut. His breath is white and foggy in front of his face and his hands tremble, but he feels feverish instead of frozen. 

 

He sutures the injuries as best he can, pinches the pale skin between his fingers to thread the needle, flesh providing little resistance against the pointed tool, and by the next fifteen minutes the wounds are all closed and bleeding has lessened. 

 

Rook is hardly even shivering now. Doc’s heart stutters. His next objective is the closets in the guest rooms upstairs, tearing through emergency cases and the likes to find enough blankets for an entire family. A white mask finds him on his way to return to Rook and he doesn’t even think twice about unloading his sidearm into the man's head. 

 

At this point, half an hour has likely passed, and the logical part of his brain has already concluded the worst. Emotionally, he refuses. 

 

He securely wraps Rook in as many layers of blankets as possible and dries his bloody hair out into soft puffy curls, arranging his broken arm and ankle in a less strenuous position to set the bones before pulling the boy into his arms. 

 

Doc shakes, whether from cold or tears he does not know. Rook is still and dealthy in his grip, but that doesn’t stop him from attempting to rub warmth back into his shoulders and cheeks with bare hands, gloves discarded somewhere useless. 

 

A voice crackles in his comm piece but he does not take in what is said, knows it is Twitch and that she sounds frazzled and frightened but cannot summon enough energy to respond, simply rips a flare from his belt and throws it as far as he can towards the door exiting the back of the yacht. Rook’s head lolls against the crook of his neck, hair tickling his chin, and Doc squeezes tighter around the seemingly fragile body. He’s in shock; he knows this vehemently, but he does not act on it as he usually would. Rook is much more important.

 

Rook was young, excitable and precious to everyone in Rainbow. To himself, he promises to bring back their little bundle of joy safe and sound, but even deeper there’s a voice that denies his hopes like a child squashing an ant beneath their shoe. An angel to his left and a devil to his right. 

 

He sees bright smiles behind his eyelids, brushing a thumb absentmindedly across a marble cheek so devoid of colour. Blood stains them both in different states of wetness and if Doc focuses long enough he can hear the creak of shattered bones with every shift. He sees a boy thrown off a cliffside, drowning and likely awake for the initial incident. Drowsiness which most likely took over once the water claimed him. Can hear the likely shrieks for help and the cries of pain he could not catch from that distance. It makes this moment so much worse.

 

The beat of their escape echoes in the wind outside, the pilot signaling them with radio static, and Doc finds he can’t summon the strength to move. He should probably leave Rook and join the rest by the chopper, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to stay right here, clutching Rook to his chest as if he could infuse him with his own life force and take back everything that has happened until now. 

 

So, Doc tears out his earpiece, gently does the same for Rook (he would’ve appreciated it. Rook never liked how it felt in his ear), and hums gently to himself to fill the now empty silence around them. 

  
  


In the back of his mind, he can hear Rook singing softly along with him. But that’s just a fools dream. 


End file.
